like the grass catches the rain
by Tsume Yuki
Summary: Erik finally has his chance for vengeance, Harrie is still finding her place in the world and T'Challa has one last chance to right his father's wrongs. (Female Harry Potter) (Sequel)
1. Chapter 1

Ramonda flees. With both arms, she cradles Shuri tight to her chest, heart beating wildly below.

Her child in dead. T'Challa is dead, killed by the cousin they never knew existed. It is only for Okoye and her quick thinking that they have even managed to escape at all. Her mind is in turmoil, all she can recall is the stricken features of her eldest child moments before he disappeared, thrown to the crushing water during ritual combat. The boy had offered her child a chance to yield but T'Challa, her brave and good son had refused. Undoubtedly aware of what will happen should he fail.

Only now, T'Challa is dead and that outsider sits upon the throne. Where can she even go? The tribes now answer to the outsider who sits upon their throne, whose first act had been to have her husband arrested. Ramonda tries to not think too hard upon that, her innards already alive with fury whenever she considers her husband right this moment. He had known. He had known N'Jobu had a child; there's some dark secret there, some kind of vileness that she's been protected from. Only, that protection has cost her T'Challa.

Sobs wreck her body but Ramonda pushes onwards, stumbling through the wildness as Shuri sleeps against her shoulder. There are ring blades clipped to her belt, a Heart-shaped Herb hastily stuffed into the bag Okoye had given her. She's not sure what is supposed to become of this; her husband too old to fight the outsider, no other of royal blood barring… Barring Shuri. But it will be years before she will be old enough to fight, years in which the outside could tear Wakanda apart with his ignorant ways. It cannot be meant for her either; Ramonda may know how to fight, but she is well aware she would not be capable of besting the outsider. T'Challa was the best of all of them… and he is gone. No, her precious son should have been able to win, he should have triumphed in ritualistic combat. For all that the outsider is well-trained, he is no true Wakanda. They are advanced in every way when compared against the outside world; in technology, economy, politics and social ways. In hand-to-hand combat. No, her son had been compromised by the accusations that had been slung at his father. For all that he is an outsider, N'Jadaka is smart, that much is clear.

Stopping for breath, Ramonda removes the tear stains from her cheeks, forcibly stills her shaking limbs. She has to remain strong. Shuri is depending on her. Maybe the future of Wakanda does as well. She's not sure; other than vengeance for the death of his father (for 'panther claws in his chest' is descriptive enough), she has no idea what N'Jadaka wishes for. What he envisions now that he sits upon the throne of the most powerful country in the world. But surely it cannot be anything good. Perhaps she may take some comfort in knowing it is her husband that is the current focus of his anger. For all that she loves T'Chaka, she is always aware the outside has desires on his vengeance before he moves on for whatever master plan he has. If she knows her husband, he shall delay the bastard for as long as possible. It will give her time. For what, Ramonda is unsure. She has nowhere to go, all the tribes are no longer loyal to her… yet, there is on tribe that has never been sworn to them. Just like the Jabari never agreed to follow the lead of her husband, they will not swear to the outsider either.

How terrible that they have become her best bet. With any luck, their newly installed leader will allow her an audience. It is, after all, her only option now.

.

* * *

.

* * *

With the power of the Heart-shaped Herb bubbling through his veins and mind spinning with his own trip to the ancestral plains, Erik stalks through the door before him, the Dora watching hi with shrewd, traitorous eyes. Yet, they're bound to their own fucked up rules; he won the ritual combat, he's king now. Not the fucker than sits in the chair before him, head in hands. Now that it's finally here, now that he's finally in the position where he can extract his revenge, Erik finds himself at a complete loss of just how to do it. Sure, he'd spent years imagining it. He has so many different scenarios pictured in his mind, so many different ways he could avenge his Baba's murder. Words weigh heavy, the features of his father's face bathed in that mystical purple light. He pushes the thoughts away again, not yet ready to begin reviewing all that occurred within the ancestral plains. Not yet. Not when he can finally look his father's murder in the eye and ask that one question. Why. Why the fuck would he kill his own brother, his own blood? What one thing could push him to that extreme? He knows his father's crimes now, even though they have yet to sink into his bones. Why the fuck did those violations tar him with the same brush? Why the fuck were they enough for this fucker to kill his Pops. It's getting to the point where he's done with questions, where he just wants to scream in inarticulate rage.

No. He will come at this with a cool head. He's the one with all the power here. It doesn't matter the fucker has years of life experience on him. He's also ignorant to the way the world works out there, to the great game of life that Erik had learnt to play, to own. Now he knows how to grind to rack up the most points; he's the master at it. Wakanda's segregated itself; both it and its people will have no idea just how to deal with him.

Former King T'Chaka, his uncle and his father's murderer, still has yet to lift his head. To look him in the fucking eye. Erik's not gonna push, he's happy to wait right now. It means more mental anguish for the fucker; that's nothing but good for him. So, he drops into one of the extravagantly large chairs, sprawling until his muscles can loosen, until he can roll his shoulders back and just… exist. He's here, finally in Wakanda. All the stress of the outside world, all his SEAl missions, all the fuckers who he'd had to put up with and all the hoops they'd made him jump through; none of it matters anymore.

The scrappy white girl's outta reach too. That's a subject he doesn't wish to dwell on too much right now so Erik pushes the thought of her (green eyes, scarred brow and unfinished business) away. He's tired of waiting, actually. He wants to bask, to revel in his glory and his triumph. He doesn't want to wait for the fucker that's coming to terms with the fact his actions have led to his son's murder. Perhaps there's a bit of regret there for Erik; his cuz hadn't known the truth, it'd been written all over his face. And Erik had used him, abused that trust in family and blood in order to usurp his place as the Black Panther and forcibly take the throne from his father too. 'S not T'Challa's fault he got stuck with a shitty father. At least he had one.

"A son without a father, and now a father without a son. See what ya own actions have brought about?" Erik's head tilts to a side, eyes narrowing; embodying the panther name he now lays claim to. His peoples' protector. Who does he classify as his people? Certainly not the people of Wakanda; those that abandoned him, however ignorantly they did so. No, it is all his black brothers and sisters. It is his job to protect them, his job to defend them. To lift the oppression that chains them down. "I grew up alone, no parents because the system took one and you murdered the other! Was it worth it? Now that it's all come back 'round, was it fucking worth it?!" T'Chaka doesn't answer and the rage coils in Erik's limbs, snapping and reforming again and again. He has to get out of here. He thought he'd been ready for this, thought he'd been ready for this confrontation but there's a million and one things he wants to say but he's only got one mouth. It keeps getting clogged, fights for the advantage until there's nothing that can escape his lips.

Shooting to his feet, Erik storms for the door, throwing it open and ignoring the horrific bang it makes against the wall as it swings 'round. He's too furious, too angry, too fucking raw to be dealing with this shit right now. He needs time, he needs to get his head on straight. Leaving T'Chaka to rot in his guilt and agony will do for now. Let him torture himself before Erik takes his lump of flesh.

.

He doesn't know whose room he decides to take over, if it belonged to his cuz, his father, or some other male relative. He knows it's not his uncle's; he made sure the king was separated from his own room and stuffed in one the Dora could keep an eye on, made sure he got the guards to highlight just which room belonged to the former king. He's got that on watch too. His cold auntie seems to have disappeared with the wind, taking his other cuz (the only one still alive) with her. That he does feel bad for; the girl shouldn't have had to lose her brother, but what about life is fair? He shouldn't have lost his mother, she should have never been left to rot in jail for a crime she didn't commit but the system hadn't cared. No one had. No one had cared when his Pops had passed. Not until Erik had shone so fucking bright that he'd seared himself into their brains.

Dropping onto the bed, Erik tears the boots from his feet, flexing his toes as the African air kisses up at sweaty soles. He's running on three hours sleep still and it's been far too long since he last put his head down. He tentatively has the country's loyalty, the tribes' loyalty, as declared by the rules of ritual combat. How long that will last though, given his status as an outsider, Erik cannot begin to guess.

He needs to plan, needs to cram in as much knowledge of the place that should have been his homeland as he can. He cannot afford any fuck-ups, not when he's just destabilised an otherwise secure monarchy. First the country needs stability before he goes about installing any other plans. It would have been a different if the country had already been in turmoil. However, he is the upset. Right now, smoothing things over so that is no longer the case is his first priority. Reclining back into the comforts of the mattress, Erik laughs in irritation. It's far too fucking soft to ever be of any comfort to him.

Snatching up a pillow, he makes for the most defensible position in the room, throwing the covers down the floor. Perhaps someday he'll get used to life's luxuries. Today is not that day.

.

 _"My son."_

 _"Baba." His arms as strong, wrap around him just like in his memories. He's a child again, a child with a father long since lost. All that differs is the purpurate light they are bathed in, seeping in through windows that had once looked upon a broken-down basketball court._

 _"You have made it home. Yet, I fear you are still lost."_

 _"But how can I be lost, Baba, if I am home? This is my chance, the chance to help all those like us. To save them, like my mother, like you, like me, never had been."_

 _"N'Jadaka, my son…"_

.

* * *

.

* * *

Rubbing her eyes as she stumbles out of the airport, Harrie Potter squints against the burning sunlight of Hong Kong. It's bright, though the air remains cold in the throes of winter. Huddling deeper into the thick material of her coat, she tightens her grip on the handle of her suitcase and sets off.

Peering with blurry eyes against the dazzling expanse of glass and metalwork, Harrie hails a cab and then slumps into the backseat, luggage pulled up into the footwell beside her. It's been... probably a day since she last saw Erik. Since she saw him disappear into the sky on that spacecraft-like aeroplane that is cousin had arrived in. She has no idea what he's doing right now, no idea if he's alright and happy and if he's found what he's so desperately been seeking. All she knows is that he's alive. Her fingers trace over her soulmark, exposed by the sweater-sleeves that're rolled up to the elbows. Some of the words she can read, some of them she doesn't have a hope of understanding. For example, one of the markings on the deathstick has changed, but since it's not in parseltongue, she doesn't have a hope of understanding just what it has changed into.

Perhaps she's a little strange, documenting each change to her soulmark, taking photos every month and logging them in an album but... as a child, it'd been the only thing keeping her sane. That promise of someone, somewhere out there, being perfectly matched for her. Someone the universe had decided deserved her, and someone who she deserved to be connected with. Checking the markings, copying them down, it'd been what kept her going. Then, then she'd met Erik. She hadn't even known his name for the first few weeks. She's still not quite sure how old he actually is, other than the fact he can't be that much older than her. She's met him as a gangly teen, after all. She's seen him grow through their meeting place and, although she doesn't have any actual pictures, she does have the memories. His facial expressions don't change that much, ranging from bored to pissed to disgruntled to solemn. The rare tweaks of genuine amusement is something she lives for. Like back with the turkey leg joke; it's taken her a while to come up with it, but the look on his face has been so worth it.

It's strange, really. When she'd first met, Harrie had seen Erik as what she deserved. At that point, she'd been an outcasted weirdo, hated by most of the school for an element of herself she couldn't control and certainly never asked for. He'd hated her for the tone of her skin and Harrie... she hadn't been sure how to deal with that. She still isn't. Though she's starting to suspect that Erik is realising skin-tone doesn't matter. Even if this personal development has taken long years of constant exposure to her spectacular self.

"English then? Are you going anywhere, Lady?" Startling, Harrie swears as her elbow makes contact with the doorframe at that awful angle that jolts the funny-bone.

"Shit. Yeah, sorry. Nearest five star hotel, please."

.

The hotel room is amazing, as she's come to expect by now. Harrie is not a good person; that much is evident in the way she pictures Aunt Petunia's face upon learning jus this her hated niece is living her life. Maybe she should take a photo to send Dudley as a late Christmas card. In fact, that's exactly what she's going to do right now.

Still dressed to the nines, Harrie sets up a camera on one of the shelves, adjusts the tasteful jewellery that frames her neck and clavicles, posing up against the huge glass windows. The expense of Hong Kong and it's setting sun are all that outline her form. It's a good phot, she knows it before she already sees it. But even the thought of Petunia frosting at the mouth isn't helping here. All she can think about is Erik. Again.

Groaning, Harrie throws herself back into the bed, stretching out into its butter-soft, air-freshened comforts. God, it's so incredibly gentle on her back, it's like sleeping on a cloud but without the water vapour. Perfect. Peeling the necklace from her throat, Harrie drops it into the handbag, ignoring the empty suitcase that she dumped by the door as soon as she came in. It's for aesthetic purposes only. After all, everything she needs is housed within her handbag, a lesson she'd learnt from Hermione. So what if it's filled with jewellery and fashionable clothes and three more racing brooms than she actually needs? Harrie fought a war. She's dedicating her life to helping people. She can afford to splash some of her own cash on herself too just because she's out here helping people make their lives better, doesn't mean she cannot treat herself too. Being a good person doesn't mean letting go of everything that makes her happy and if she can get some joy from material things, then why not? Once she grows tired of it, she'll sell it on or donate it to a good cause.

"I cannot stay focused today." The words slip from her mouth without any due thought but they're painstakingly true. Hariel Potter is struggling to keep her mind focused on anything but the one thing that is bugging her. Eyes once again drifting back to her soulmark, Harrie runs her fingers across the dark syntaxes, tracing over the 'magic' and 'Marauder' markings that make up the invisibility cloak signifier. She prays those two never leave, they're an intricate part of what she is, two key definitions. A witch, a bring of pure magic. A Marauder, the daughter/goddaughter of one.

Harrie's fingers halt on a new word, stomach dropping. Erik better be in their meeting place tonight.

She wants a solid explanation on why 'king' has suddenly appeared on her wrist.


	2. Chapter 2

"The soulmark is not correct. Oh, why would Mistress send a filthy muggle to the Noble House of Black?"

The croaking, scratching voice is the first thing that registers in T'Challa's mind. His whole-body aches, a deep laceration present on his chest and it's still stinging as if it's been freshly bestowed. He, he cannot recall what happened. Cannot recall where he is. Cannot recall who that voice belongs to. There's the roar of the falls, the ache of his muscles, the aftertaste that comes with losing the Heart-shaped Herb's powers.

There're his cousin's eyes, alight with fury and regret.

Gasping, T'Challa shoots up but it is too slow, absent of the power of the Black Panther. He moves as a man would, but only a man. What stands crouched across from him is as far for a man as can be without actually being an animal. At least, he believes it is not an animal. It speaks, so surely not?

"Wha- where am I?"

The creature sneers, vanishing from sight. But, no, that's not possible. Only Wakanda has that kind of technology; there is no country outside of the barrier capable of replicating that. Not yet anyway. Wakanda makes it their business to keep up with the rest of the world's technology, even if it is so painfully behind what they are capable of. Even as he stares that little bit more though, the creature does not reappear. Even without Bast's gift to his senses, he should still have been able to hear subtle breathing if he were not alone. Which means he truly has been left here.

Slowly, T'Challa gets his feet under him, wincing in pain. His every muscle hurts, screams in protest at the very idea of standing but he pushes through it. He needs to find out what happened, needs to find out where he is. Needs to find out how he is alive.

.

The room he is in is a stark difference to what he is used to. European furnishings and its dark. Old.

He runs his fingers along the rich, highly polished wood of the dresser nearby. Not a note of dust rises from the surface. Displaced by his touch. The whole room is spectacularly clean, to an almost unnatural level.

"Where am I?" He repeats, making for the sole window. It's old, made of wood and thin glass panels that have far less condensation on than they should have, given the crumpled blanket of snow outside. Snow. And the street; it's something out of the American movies. But not because this does not look like America at all and his eyes are quick to scan the signs.

England, most likely. He's in England.

How by Bast's will has he found himself in England? And that strange creature, surely there is a link.

He tries the window first but, no matter how he fiddled with the cast iron latch, it will not open. Though the glass appears thin, T'Challa is hesitant to break it and make an escape. The last he recalls...

His cousin, fire and fury in his eyes. The weakness of leaving the Black Panther mantle behind for ritual combat. The crushing roar of the falls-

"I need to go back." Their combat is not yet at an end, he is not dead, nor had he yielded. He is just, elsewhere.

.

The corridor is cut from the same cloth as the room he awoke in. Though it looks to have been recently decorated, there are hints of the prior dark styling left behind. The wooden floorboards are smoothed with age, freshly polished and cool beneath the soles of his bare feet. He is still in his clothes from the ritual, the clothes that his cousin had fought with him in. Yet, despite the cold that lingers outside of this house, there is no internal indicator that it is winter that lays beyond the building's boarders. It's comfortably warm but there are no radiators and the floor is not warm enough to indicate underfloor heating is present. Even as he presses a hand to the wall, it is cool to the touch.

He has awoken in a building that is certainly not within Wakanda, occupied by a being that is not human and it appears to be more technologically advanced than should be possible outside of his country.

There is a woosh of noise from one of the rooms down the stairs and T'Challa pauses upon the landing, one of his hands curled around the bannister. There is the evidence that something else resides within this household; perhaps it is the strange being from before. It has spoken of soulmarks and the House of Black. Despite the clear clues, it still takes T'Challa's mind a moment to make the connection. For the only person he as interacted with that has ties to both the concept of soulmarks that are close to being relevant to him, and to a family with the surname Black, is Hariel Potter. Her Sirius Black foundation and… the soulmark that pairs her to his cousin. His cousin who has bested him in ritual combat and will now be sitting upon the throne. He needs to get back, that much is clear.

As he nears the bottom of the stairs, T'Challa can hear words drifting out from the door to the left, spoken in a voice that he recognises. She is, after all, the only Englishwoman he has spoken to in recent months.

"With a- but I only gave Erik the charms."

Pushing open the door, T'Challa stands at the threshold and stares at Hariel Potter, who stares right back at him with marked confusion on her face. She's dressed down, a large jumper with the collar slipping over one shoulder and leggings that lead down to battered trainers. Of more interest is the being that he woke to find hovering over him; it's standing before his cousin's soulmate, half hunched over in deference and it sneers in his direction, spidery fingers flexing, though he doubts the creature could lift a weapon, given how painfully thin it's limbs arm. Then, with a snap of its fingers, it's gone again, leaving him alone with Hariel Potter in a kitchen far from home.

* * *

Setting one cup of tea down upon the table, Harrie cradles her own mug between her palms, sinking into a chair up to the kitchen table as she eyes T'Challa. Telling Erik about the Wizarding World had been one thing; he's her soulmate, her other half. He's entitled to know about the world she belongs to, even if all the purebloods would spit out their dummies once they realised their precious Girl Who Lived is bound to a muggle for the rest of their shared days.

Telling her soulmate's muggle cousin (the prince cousin who's a prince and clearly not aware of the Wizarding World) is a different matter altogether. She's not entirely sure they can throw her in jail for this one, given her saviour status, but she's very likely to get a slap on the wrist if they find out. Key word being 'if'. But, given that T'Challa is here and Erik is still over in Wakanda (and handing out her gifts like they're nothing more than little trinkets, the fucker), then they clearly have a problem.

"Thank you," T'Challa murmurs, having taken a seat the moment she offered him a cup of tea. For all that they are clearly from two different cultures, she's pleased to note that good ol' offer of a drink to further discuss matters over has transcended the differences between them. "How am I here?"

"Erik's fault," Harrie says, ruthlessly throwing him under the knight bus because it is his fault. She'd given him those little charms because he has one of the high mortality jobs; if she had a Weasley clock, Harrie wouldn't be surprised to find that Erik's needle constantly swings between 'work' and 'mortal peril'. She's spent more than her fair share of time in the latter, not that she'll stop that from allowing her to frown over Erik's life choices. Speaking of which- "It's a charm that's supposed to whisk him away if he's ever in danger of imminent death." And that, in itself, is worrying. He'll still have the charm that blocks a one-hit-kill shot (something George had helped her develop; anything short of a killing curse would be, if not blocked, stopped from taking full effect). But he's not absent the charm that will portkey him to safety if he's, oh, slowly bleeding out, for example.

"…I was thrown from a cliff." Harrie's eyes narrow at the pause before that statement, analysing the frown on T'Challa's face. Kreacher had healed the other up to ensure he wouldn't bleed across all her soft furnishing, but he's done nothing for the bruising. And there's a lot of bruising. That T'Challa is so helpfully dressed in clothes she can easily place as African in origin (she's very determinedly not focusing on the fact he is shirtless; she may want something with Erik if he's ever gonna get his shit together, but she's sure as hell not blind) and has left over traces of tribal markings on his skin… well, she's got a feeling there's a little more to the 'I was thrown from a cliff' story.

Well, time to rip the bandage off (or down the Skele-Gro, as the wizards say).

"There's another race of humans that have access to what we've called magic. We can use it to cast spells, heal things, yadda yadda. It's how the charm brought you here." T'Challa stares. The steam rises up from his mug of tea and Harrie, had she bothered to stock up Grimmauld Place before she went off on her world tour, would have offered him something stronger to get through the conversation.

.

She spends a half-hour laying out the facts for her soulmate's cousin. What follows is T'Challa softly explaining the ritual combat he had just been involved in, the very thing that had brought him to her and undoubtedly caused the change in her soulmark. Harrie very pointedly doesn't look at her arm, doesn't allow her eyes to wander from T'Challa's eyes as they hesitantly share a few truths about the cultures they belong to. There's a probationary bridge of trust at the moment, only established by the markings on Harrie's arm and the blood that runs in T'Challa's veins. They're both connected to Erik in ways that cannot be denied and thus, can begin to tentatively share a little of their world with each other.

"I must return, with my survival, the challenge is not yet complete." T'Challa drains the last of the tea from his cup, placing it carefully upon the table. Harrie watches his fingers wrap around the handle, thumb brushing back and forth over the curve with the muscles in his forearm flexing and her mind jumps to Erik. Erik, whose arms are decorated in raised bumps that are too neat and systematic to be anything but purposefully created. He's just as muscular as the man before her, though the way they hold themselves is so very different. There's a calm composure to T'Challa, for all that there's something leaden weighing on his mind, something that hangs heavy on his shoulders and she cannot hope to guess what it is. She knows where she recognises that posture from though. It's post-prophecy discovery. That moment in her life where everything had fallen into place as her trust in the people who are supposed to look after her shattered.

Whatever. It's not her problem, whatever T'Challa's uncovered in his life is his issue to deal with. It's only her problem if Erik makes it her problem. Erik, who walks with coiling rage in his limbs and an easy swagger that's determined to make you believe he's the biggest, meanest threat in the room.

"Right. How're we getting you back then?"

T'Challa looks to her, dark eyes liquid onyx as he stares at her. As if he'd been expecting no help whatsoever from her. Which is ridiculous; even if he wasn't Erik's cousin, she's already tied into this by the fact he's here via her portkey. Brought into her home by her magic, even if it's supposed to be Erik who appears after a near-death experience.

"If you could point me to a telephone, I could make a call." Right. Telephone. That muggle thing that most certainly won't be in her house. Damn. To think, she left the high-class comforts of Hong-Kong for this.

* * *

"My King, is it true that you are going after Klaue?"

Angling his head back, Erik finishes chewing on the piece of fruit he'd just taken a bite of, twisting the apple about in his hand. The Dora guards, all looking equally as unimpressed as the one that stands beside them, stand to attention as the newcomer addresses him. From the clothing, it's not difficult to place the man as one of the Boarder Tribe. The eager light in his eyes is something Erik knows all too well.

Leaning forwards in his chair, Erik swallowing the mouthful of apple, feeling the necklace he'd received after the trial was over shift against his collarbones. He's still not used to it yet, not used to the scrap of casts across his skin. If Harrie hadn't met T'Challa, maybe his torso would have been covered in a display of his kills by the time he arrived here. Maybe they were have caught further on the necklace. He'll never know though. He's here, he's king of Wakanda and Cuz is dead in a ditch somewhere at the bottom of the falls. Erik's killed a lot of people now though, has a body-count that's noted on his file and he's been building up a bit of a reputation. You don't get that without putting down a lot of people. You get numb after so long.

T'Challa had been blood. T'Challa had suffered for his father's sins. That's a trait they share.

"Yeah. Fucker stole vibranium from Wakanda and he knows the truth of our advancements." _Our_. It feels good to say, good to acknowledge that he is part of Wakanda, the leader of Wakanda. He has the former king held hostage; the queen being on the run could cause problems down the line but Erik ain't stupid. He knows sending the guard after her wouldn't be a wise call. Auntie's been running the show perhaps longer than Erik's been alive; there'll be too much loyalty in the would-be hunters he sends. They'd probably allow her to slip away. It's a waste. No, Auntie has had at least a solid decade to build up relationships with all the people here. Which means Erik needs some kind of in, some kind of way of endearing himself to the people to build up that respect and adornment. And nothing brings people together more than a common enemy. So, Klaue.

It's personal for Erik, of course. And, seems like it's personal for this guy too.

"I am W'Kabi, of the Boarder Tribe. Klaue's attack left me orphaned. I would be honoured if you would consider me for the task." Ya see, this is exactly what he needs. Folks he can drum up loyalty in. Gaining this guy's trust is gonna be easy, he can already tell. The Boarder Tribe is more likely to follow his lead once he extends a hand to one of their own.

Grinning, Erik takes another bite of his apple, the crisp crunch echoing through the dining hall where only he is eating. The former king locked up in his rooms, the council no doubt fielding questions from their own tribes in order to establish what on earth is going on in the Golden City.

"Sure. Welcome abord, W'Kabi. I'mma head to the lab and get to tracking that fucker down. I'll let ya know when we're going after the fucker."

.

The labs of Wakanda are a world away from MIT. He can feel the judgemental stares on his shoulders from the Dora, from the scientists that'd been working up a sweat (ha) in here before he'd made his grand entrance. Whatever. Erik doesn't give a fuck what they think. His ignorance of this technology is only due to their abandonment; he doesn't know shit because he had to teach himself using the primitive shit that the USA had to offer. Hell, he'll not only catch up on how Wakanda technology works, he'll outstrip them soon enough. It's what he does, leave all the disbelieving fuckers in the dust. Story of his life. He's a king now and they have to listen to him.

"I want you searching for Klaue. Don't care what satellites you have to hack, don't care what shit you gotta pull to get that fucker found. CIA, SHIELD, MI6, whatever agencies are out there. If they have info on Klaue, you get it. Got it?" Head tilted to a side, Erik offers them a smile that's part encouraging, part 'get your shit together before I rip inta ya hides'. The same one he'd used on other recruits when they thought they could steamroll right over him because their skin was light and they'd climbed the ranks of the backs of his brothers. He'd soon set them straight.

"Yes, my King."

He takes just a moment to make sure they're gonna follow orders before he makes his way further into the lab, scanning the surfaces of each one, taking in the technology that's foreign to him but shouldn't be. He should have grown up living and breathing this. But T'Chaka had killed his father and left him in Oakland to bounce from children's home to children's home and… and his Dad had seen fit to give Wakandan information to an outsider. He can't ignore that, as much as he'd like to. It'd be one thing they could use against him here, one more thing they could look upon him and scoff at. So, he'll right that wrong. He'll deal with Klaue, win some allegiance and, once his seat upon the throne is secure, then he can begin. It'd have been different in the monarchy was unstable; the people would already be riled and ready to go. But they're not. He's the upset here so he needs to smooth that.

Then, he can get started on helping his black brothers and sisters.

Erik's eyes find the smallest chair and table that reside in the corner of the lab, the chipboard and tiny safety gloves that reside on the surface catching his gaze. There's a little sign on the desk, titled 'Shuri's Table' and Erik very aggressively pushes down the guilt that wants to bubble up, instead approaching to inspect the little project that's been abandoned. So, Little Cuz is a brain box too, huh. Probably shoulda expected that. When he catches up to Auntie later, maybe she can get back to work when he's managed to settle all this shit.

* * *

 **So... I lost my notes on this fic and couldn't remember where I was going with it. Today though, I listened to 'Life's a Mess' by Juice WRLD and Halsey and got inspired to have another crack at it. Won't be going in whatever direction I had before because I can't remember, but hey, fic not dead.**

' _Thank god, I finally found you, you put the light in my eyes when I'm around you, I'm too flawed to hold you down, but don't wanna be here alone... Thank god, I finally found you, I'll put the light in your eyes if I'm allowed to.'_

 **Tsume  
** **xxx**


End file.
